


An Introduction to Dancing [An Omen of the Gavotte]

by vol_ctrl



Series: The History of Omens [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Slow Burn, Accusations, Angel/Demon Relationship, Best Friends, Boys Kissing, Canon Gay Relationship, Drunk Dancing, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Gavotte, Gay, I kissed a demon and I liked it, Just what are your intentions, M/M, Minor Angst, Old Friends, Shyness, Slow Burn for the Smut, Surprise Kissing, Sweetness, Temptation, Victorian, You kissed me!, is it canon now right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-13 04:20:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19243714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vol_ctrl/pseuds/vol_ctrl
Summary: Crowley doesn't understand what the holy fuss is over dancing. A reluctant Aziraphale accompanies him to a dance hall, where he is an unwitting accomplice to Crowley's little addition to the latest dance craze.





	1. The Peasants' Kissing Dance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Silencingthedrums](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Silencingthedrums).



> I dedicate this work to one of my oldest friends, whom I have not been in contact with for many years. Our dreams came true, Blade - Good Omens on the big screen. And what could have made it sweeter than to have our beloved David Tennant as Crowley?

It wasn’t his idea to learn how to dance. As per usual, it was the little demon on his shoulder; or rather, sat beside him on a park bench.

“What’s wrong with dancing?” Crowley asked, his lips twisted half in amusement and half in derision. “I thought there was meant to be some dancing when you all are to be basking in  _ eternal glory. _ ” He waved his hands in his usual dismissive way.

“Dancing? Oh, no. That’s your lot,” Aziraphale replied primly, hands firmly folded in his lap. “Singing, yes. Dancing, no.”

Crowley sank further into his lazy sprawl. At least they were seated on opposite ends of the bench so the angel had plausible deniability that he knew the inelegant man. “Even the way these types “dance” while hardly touching more than fingertips?” He nodded at a fine couple walking by, her in a tight bodice and voluminous skirt that obscured anything akin to curves, and he in a coat and tails, tightly dressed calves pronounced by the prominent heels of his shoes.

“Well, that’s not exactly…” Aziraphale tipped his head to one side thoughtfully. “That’s not quite dancing, is it.”

“Oh, so there are right ways to “dance” and wrong ways to  _ dance _ ,” Crowley growled for emphasis and grinned at the angel. Aziraphale’s tight-lipped smile tipped his amusement, though he bristled at Crowley’s tone. “Went to a right banger last night,” he went on. “Very lively. But rather… clean.” A hint of disappointment. “I think you’d like it. This new dance.”

Aziraphale would have sworn Crowley used some devilish trick on him, but it was against his nature to swear. It must have been part of the Divine Plan, he assured himself, that Crowley sauntered him over to a dance hall that night. It wasn’t in the worst part of town, to its merit, but it still wasn’t exactly wholesome.

“It’s all the jostling about that’s unseemly,” Aziraphale explained. “How sweaty one gets with all that vigorous motion.” His laced cuff flipped about his fingers as he gestured vaguely.

“God’s got something against getting sweaty?” Even with his tinted glasses over his eyes, Aziraphale could feel his biting look.

“Well.” Aziraphale did not think he would need to point out the obvious similarity to other activities that got one sweaty from vigorous motion. “Well.” He wouldn’t say it.

Crowley broke out in a grin and howled. “Of course! It always comes back to the sin of sex with you lot.”

Expecting raucous music and sinful merry-making to wash over him as Crowley shoved open the door, Aziraphale was pleasantly surprised to find that it was all quite civilized. There was a small band playing music that even he had to admit was catchy, men talking over small glasses of sherry, and four smartly-dressed men dancing a neat little jig.

Crowley eyed Aziraphale over the tops of his tinted glasses with a flash of those evil eyes. The angel smiled demurely. “Well, this seems… nice.”

Satisfied, Crowley grinned and strode into the room. Greeted, introduced, and welcomed, Crowley siddled off to the side with Aziraphale. “Sherry, mon cherie?” He produced an impossible bottle from his waistcoat.

Aziraphale paused for a long moment, staring at the bottle. He then smiled at his oldest friend and gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Oh, why not.”

He’d hardly finished his first glass when Crowley put down the bottle with a determined snap and swept his arm wide, turning so quickly that his tails twirled about him. “Come then, angel. Let’s see if you can dance!”

“What? No. No, no. Crowley, I can’t.”

“Why not? You think you’ll be smited--smote?--for a little jig?” Crowley held out his hand expectantly.

Aziraphale pleaded with a gaze.

“Well, if you don’t  _ want _ to dance, that’s another thing entirely. But I’ve seen you tapping your toe for the past ten minutes, and that’s halfway to dancing, if you ask me.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened as his leg stiffened and he ground his heel into the floorboards. His jaw muscles worked as his righteous brain failed to. Crowley started to tap his toe in time to the music and tried on a few steps with a little turn, as if to show off how fun and easy it was to do.

“Maybe angels can’t dance. More’s the pity.” Crowley grinned and drifted further away from Aziraphale and toward the group, who welcomed the new dancer with glee.

“I  _ can  _ dance,” Aziraphale muttered under his breath. It did look like fun. More fun than just standing here all holier-than-thou. “I just choose not to.” Bristling, Aziraphale helped himself to another glass of sherry while he watched the demon enjoy himself, dressed like a mortician in all black against the flurry of fine, light-colored waistcoats. He looked like he was having more fun than he usually did in Aziraphale’s company, which did nothing for the angel’s self esteem. He wasn’t jealous. Angels didn’t get jealous. But he was accustomed to Crowley’s companionship, and he never saw the demon so carefree around him.

A war of morals waged silently behind slate blue eyes as he nursed his sherry. The band finished a tune and Aziraphale drained his glass, his mind made up. He should try this dancing. For research. One could not simply denounce a thing without understanding it. Drawing himself up, he strode over to Crowley.

“So. This dance. How… is it done?” he asked in a small, tight voice. “I don’t want to look like a fool…”

“Ahh, finally come around, have you?” He grinned. “Gentlemen! My fine, shy friend has finally decided to join us.” Crowley nudged one of the nearby gents, “Just needed a bit more sherry to soothe the nerves.”

Crowley had proven years ago that angels could, in fact, blush. Since then, he seemed to seek out opportunities to reinforce the truth of it.

“Show him how it’s done.” Crowley practically shoved Aziraphale into the group of flushed dancers. They welcomed him with friendly claps on the shoulder and kind jostling, getting him into position and showing him the steps.

Now it was Crowley’s turn to watch, and he took great pleasure in seeing the angel shuffle stiffly while his instructors stepped nimbly. To his surprise and amusement, Aziraphale took to the gavotte in quick stride. Soon, he was beaming at his own mastery of the steps and looking to Crowley with an I-told-you-so sort of look.

They drank to Aziraphale’s success, and with inhibitions lowered and spirits heightened, took to the dance floor once more. It was then that Crowley added his own flair to this new dance. The climax of the dance involved an improvised duet, met by cheers and applause from the other dancers. But there was an element missing, Crowley thought. The cherry on top. Aziraphale was giddy as he tried on a new sequence of steps, feeling like he was really getting it now, and Crowley complimented his movements by matching his tempo. As they clasped hands again and ended their duet, Crowley pulled Aziraphale to himself and kissed the angel on the lips.

The flourish was met with even greater revelry. The gavotte has become historically known as the “peasants’ kissing dance”; however, Crowley and Aziraphale would not be present that night to see how this step became an integral part of the gavotte, for Aziraphale was so taken aback that his feet tangled beneath him and he twisted his ankle, putting him out of commission for the evening.

 


	2. Slow Dancing in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley helps Aziraphale hobble home to the bookshop, where the latter is forced to confront how nice kissing is. Crowley acts the gentleman and it does Aziraphale in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dedicate this work to one of my oldest friends, whom I have not been in contact with for many years. Our dreams came true, Blade - Good Omens on the big screen. And I finally wrote some damn fanfiction for it!

“You kissed me!” Aziraphale shouted at Crowley outside the dance hall, his words soft around the edges from the sherry they had imbibed. One of his arms was hung around Crowley’s neck for support as he limped along.

“It’s part of the dance,” Crowley said, innocent as an altar boy. Action of questionable morals for the day: done. He didn’t really do  _ evil. _

“Oh, I’m sure it is now.” Aziraphale glared at Crowley. The demon was still grinning like, well, like a demon.

“I think it’s nice.” Crowley was putting sugar in his voice, as he tended to when Aziraphale got riled up.

“You tricked me. All that rot about- about it being clean and- and…”

“You don’t think kissing is nice?” Crowley steered him around, both in conversation and on the cobbles.

Aziraphale looked up at Crowley and was reminded that he had once been an angel. There was this sweetness in his obscured gaze, a softness of his smile. His face grew hot and he was sure at any moment Crowley was going to burst into derisive laughter.

“I-I…” His head was foggy from the sherry and his ankle hurt and Crowley was right there, had to be right there to hold him up as he limped along. “Ye-ess…” he careened, turning his face away from Crowley’s. “Kissing is… nice. But you’re supposed to- to do it with someone you love. Someone special.”

“Can’t think of anyone more special than you,” Crowley said simply. “Easily the person I’ve known the longest. How long’s it been now?” He hummed thoughtfully and gently readjusted Aziraphale’s arm over his shoulder, which had grown quite stiff. “Never got on much with the  _ others. _ Angels or demons, really.”

He was so casual about it! Aziraphale was beside himself and all sorts of things were humming and drumming inside him. His mind was racing and going much too fast with the sherry lubricating everything.

“An angel who can put up with me, doesn’t act uptight all the time… well, not  _ all  _ the time… An angel who goes dancing with a demon…” Crowley grinned fondly, chin lifted with pride. “I’d call that special.”

Aziraphale slowly turned his head, just enough to peek at Crowley and gauge his honesty. One should never trust a demon. But Crowley… he was different. Maybe not technically. Aziraphale would be hard pressed to think of anyone Above who would acknowledge that. But to him… He swallowed a lump in his throat as his fingers found purchase on Crowley’s lapel.

“Here you are.” Aziraphale looked up and saw that here he was. The bookshop. He tested his weight on his good leg and let his arm slide from around Crowley’s shoulders so he could fish the key from his waistcoat pocket. His balance wasn’t quite what he thought it was and he found himself stumbling, right into Crowley’s arms. “Wa-hey. Are you still drunk?” Crowley laughed.

“It’s helping me forget about my ankle,” Aziraphale muttered.

“You could fix that too, y’know.” 

“Divine miracles aren’t for fixing stupidly sprained ankles.”

“If you say so.”

Aziraphale let Crowley hold him while he fumbled with the key, and then shuffle him inside. It was dark inside the bookshop with only the faint glimmer of street lamps filtering in through the large windows on walls adjacent to the door. As Crowley closed the door behind them, Aziraphale looked up at him and could see nothing but a gleam off his glasses and the shadow of his narrow jaw and ever-present smirk.

He didn’t know what possessed him. Something must have. He leaned into Crowley, pressed him against the door, and kissed him. Crowley had a moment’s pause before he responded. The chaste kiss did not stay chaste for long, as Crowley did things with his lips and tongue Aziraphale had never even thought of. Kissing was more than just nice.

The angel was left gasping for air.

“Gotta breathe through your nose,” Crowley said. One arm around Aziraphale, his other hand moved to hold his jaw and draw him toward his lips. Aziraphale wanted to catch his breath, but he was lost in this brand new sensation. And to experience it with Crowley; whose scent was not so much brimstone as woodsmoke, whose long-fingered hands were nigh familiar as his own, whose very presence reassured him, reminded him that he wasn’t the only one who overlooked that Garden so many centuries ago and had been on the mortal plane ever since.

Aziraphale felt something. Something physical. There was not an inch between their bodies, but now there was something firm pressing into his hip. He pulled his lips away and felt Crowley’s husky exhale against his mouth. He snaked a hand between them to find what was stiffly pinned between them. “What is that?” he wondered aloud.

“What do you think it is?” Crowley’s voice was all smoke and sherry. “Oi, don’t grab it like that,” he hissed as he jerked into the door.

“Wh-what?” Aziraphale took a step back and almost tumbled to the floor. Crowley was quick enough to grab him by the arm and steady him. “What do you  _ mean _ ?” he demanded. “You… You  _ have something  _ down there?”

“Sometimes. When I want to,” he drawled.

“When you  _ want to _ ,” Aziraphale hissed.

“It’s like drinking. Sometimes you need to get drunk. Sometimes you need to fuck.”

“Well, I--” Aziraphale was so many shades of red, he could have been a bouquet of roses. “Are you suggesting…”

“Yes.” Crowley didn’t bother letting Aziraphale fluster out the whole sentence. He snapped his fingers and two sconces and a candle at the front table came to life. The warm light was chased back by the dark windows, but it was enough light to see each other by. There had been enough fumbling about in the dark. Crowley didn’t intend to take advantage of the cover of darkness. His expression was serious, lips drawn into a thoughtful frown.

Aziraphale stared back at him in shock.

Crowley broke their gaze and adjusted his tinted glasses. “You should try it sometime,” he said, his tone suddenly flippant as a raucous grin split his features. “Packing some  _ luggage  _ downstairs. More fun than you’d think.”

Aziraphale knew his face was still hot, and his lips tingled in Crowley’s absence. He covered his mouth as if to hide the sensation and went to draw his arm out of Crowley’s grip, but in a dizzy instant decided instead to grip him in return.

Crowley looked down at the angel’s pale fingers tight around his dark jacket sleeve, then back up at his stricken face. He pulled Aziraphale close and slung his arm over his shoulder again. “I’m not gonna stand here all night.” He led Aziraphale through the maze of books he called home, to the back room with circle rug playing as flimsy disguise for his summoning circle and velvet lounge against the private bookshelves.

He lowered Aziraphale onto the lounge, using one knee on the cushion to balance himself. The angel shrank back from him, and Crowley frowned. “I’m not gonna lead you into temptation, if that’s what you think.”

Aziraphale’s eyes flew open and his hands lowered to steady himself on the lounge. He felt a pang of guilt, realizing for a moment, he thought Crowley would descend on him and have his way. “No… No, of course not.”

“You thought I would.”

“No, I--”

“Thought angels weren’t supposed to lie,” Crowley sneered.

Aziraphale looked put out and he set his jaw. “Now listen here, Crowley, you’ve done nothing but lead me into temptation this evening, so forgive me if I call your self control into question.”

Crowley cracked a smile and shrugged. “Got me there.”

“Was this…” Aziraphale made quite the sight, sprawled on the lounge with his sore ankle hanging toward the floor, and Crowley with his knee braced innocently between his legs, leaning over him with an arm along the carved back of the chair, “your intent all along?” His brow narrowed.

“This, in particular? No.” Crowley stayed put. He knew as soon as he left Aziraphale’s side, the spell might be broken. Figuratively--he would never use his power to charm Aziraphale. Where was the fun in that? The angel did more than enough on his own to corrupt his so-called ideals. “Happy accident.”

“Not so happy accident, thank you. My ankle is quite sore.”

“Drink some more sherry.”

“Maybe I will,” Aziraphale sniffed. “Would you like some? You did help me hobble home.”

Crowley was reluctant to shift, his lips afire from kissing the angel, molten to the core. He’d been honest, but he was glad to have his eyes obscured. Aziraphale had never cowered before his serpentine eyes, but Crowley wasn’t sure he could hide his desire from the angel’s keen gaze. Just to see his old friend wilt before him, as if he had no say in the matter, hurt in a way Crowley would never admit. Demons weren’t meant to give a shit about consent.

To prove to himself that he wasn’t just some lust-hungry demon willing to feign ‘consent’ for his own sordid desires, Crowley pushed back from the lounge and went to the corner shelf in the back room where Aziraphale kept his lesser bottles of spirits. The good stuff lived in a little cellar below the summoning circle.

The brief reprieve from Crowley’s intoxicating closeness gave Aziraphale a moment to breathe. But there was a pang in his chest. His heart was still racing as he peeked over the back of the chair to see Crowley making himself at home with his liquor.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley sauntered back with two glasses of sherry and Aziraphale made room for him on the lounge, nervously straightening his coat. “For what?” he asked, offering a glass.

“For…” Honestly, the fashion these days was lovely but all too tight when it felt so hot in the room. Aziraphale’s cheeks were ruddy as he took the glass with a tiny aside, “thanks--for… for kissing you. Like that. I don’t know what came over me.”

“I started it, didn’t I?” Crowley mused and relaxed into the chair, sipping at his sherry.

“Yes, but--” Aziraphale couldn’t stop thinking about it. He was hot all over, as if the demon’s fire was inside him, and he felt a strong compulsion to throw off all his clothes and tear the salve for this unbearable heat out of Crowley. He couldn’t think straight--that was the problem.

“Oh, bollocks,” he cursed and downed his sherry, slamming the glass on the marble tabletop beside the lounge. He meant to throw himself at Crowley, not unlike a maiden at her lover--voracious reader that he was, angel or no, he had come across some questionable materials in his time--but in his hurry to loosen his cravat and simultaneously spring on Crowley, he forgot about his sprained ankle and tripped clumsily into Crowley’s lap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear the smut is coming. The next chapter is the longest, and 100% smut.


	3. The Beast with Two Backs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale learns yet another new dance from his best friend, the demon Crowley. Crowley reluctantly contemplates his effect on the purity of Aziraphale's immortal soul.

**The Beast with Two Backs**

  


“Oh, God, what am I doing?” Aziraphale moaned against Crowley’s thigh.

“What  _ are  _ you doing?” Crowley hadn’t moved an inch, though Aziraphale could see a brow arched above his glasses.

“I-I want to do it. The kissing. And… and whatever comes after the kissing,” Aziraphale said quickly, worrying at his cravat.

Crowley stared down at Aziraphale seriously. His expression was pinched and stern from what Aziraphale could see, but behind his glasses, his eyes searched the angel for answers. “You don’t know the first thing about what comes after the kissing,” he accused.

“Of course I do!” Aziraphale blustered and pulled himself up. Within striking range of the snake of original sin once more, he found himself breathless. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

Crowley slowly put down his sherry and reached for his glasses. Aziraphale’s chest hitched. As his glasses left his face, a sultry smile spread across his lips, though there was a doubtful look in his serpentine eyes. “I wouldn’t fault you for choosing lady parts,” he said lightly.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale shoved his chest and pushed a laugh out of the demon. “Stop acting all high and mighty--!”

“That’s your job, is it?” Crowley asked as he took the angel’s jaw in his hand and drew him into a kiss. Aziraphale made a sound of protest against his lips, but swiftly gave in to relishing the return of that sinful heat.

Crowley untangled the angel’s cravat and deftly fingered open the first dozen small buttons of his shirt. The relief was immediate, and followed by a swift new wave of sensation from those fingers on his bare collar. Aziraphale gasped and broke away, catching Crowley’s wrist.

The demon was too entranced by Aziraphale’s expression to say anything. The angel’s pale cheeks were flushed in a way he had never seen before, his eyelids heavy and shy, but smoldering with a desire he doubted any angel had felt without Falling.

Instead of drawing away those tempting fingers, Aziraphale led them up his neck and to his lips. He kissed Crowley’s fingers and pressed his cheek against his palm. It felt so nice. So right. Aziraphale knew, in theory, it was all terribly, terribly wrong, but… did he truly have free will? Everything was arguably according to the Ineffable Plan, wasn’t it? Surely God would have struck him down already, if not for the dancing, definitely for the kissing. So far, no smiting here.

Crowley held his face with a tenderness unbecoming of a demon, but kissed him with the passion of one. As he led Aziraphale back down toward the lounge, he tore at the absurd number of buttons his costume demanded, and hardly two buttons down decided to will the whole thing undone with a devilish snap. Aziraphale moved on an instinct of desire he didn’t know he was capable of, peeling Crowley’s coat and collar back from his shoulders. It was only natural that they, the two who had witnessed the revelation of Knowledge, the discovery of Shame and Sin, should welcome their nakedness together.

The effect of flesh against flesh was akin to the first bite of the first apple for the angel. Concerns swirling in the back of his head about visualizing and realizing the equipment necessary for this particular dance suddenly vanished. The Knowledge came to him divine as Crowley pressed against him and started kissing his neck. When Crowley’s hips met his own, there was a return of hard, sinful flesh trapped within his trousers. The pressure combined with Crowley’s hot mouth on his throat made Aziraphale moan aloud with pleasure for the first time in his centuries of existence.

“Never heard you sing like that, angel,” Crowley crooned and kissed Aziraphale’s lips with excitement. With less care than he had taken with their coats and shirts, Crowley roughly ripped the fine buttons off his trousers and did away with them; not without some tangling about his stockings and garters and all the unnecessarily fancy things that men like Aziraphale dressed themselves in.

“Jesus Christ,” Crowley hissed as he looked at the luggage Aziraphale had packed for himself. He guessed the angel hadn’t seen many naked human men, and wondered where his idea of what was ‘average’ had come from. Just what kind of books was he reading?

“Wh-what?” Aziraphale looked nervous.

Crowley cocked a look at Aziraphale’s equipment, then shot his eyes up to meet the angel’s. “Let’s just say, I’m glad I’m on the giving end and not the receiving.”

Aziraphale went from confused, to surprised, then, shockingly, to sultry. “Who decided that?” he asked with narrowed brow and lunged up to kiss Crowley fiercely.

There was no more question, no more hesitation. Aziraphale couldn’t protest because angels couldn’t lie. His body revealed far more than anything that could be put into words. Crowley’s heat consumed him and absolved him of the tension coiled so tightly inside him.

Crowley, amazed by Aziraphale’s intensity, found himself not so much the instigator as much as just trying to keep up. As with dancing, once Aziraphale learned a few moves, he threw himself into it with abandon, as if to prove his mastery of all things. 

Crowley’s fingers raked through Aziraphale’s short hair; unfashionable for the era, but the perfect length to grip as he arched the angel’s throat bare for his lips and teeth. Aziraphale held him there with a whimper, fingers lost in Crowley’s long, loose curls. He blindly felt his way along the pronounced angle of the demon’s collarbone, down his lean chest. Aziraphale was reminded of Crowley’s past iterations as a snake, echoed in his sinewy, sleek human form and the way the demon’s arm slithered around his waist and brought their groins together, hitching his thighs up over Crowley’s hips.

Aziraphale couldn’t catch his breath, gasping for air through the intense heat that consumed him like hellfire. Short, manicured nails raked down Crowley’s ribs and sought out the hardness he felt straining through cloth to grind against his body. “Why are you still…” Aziraphale panted, growing frustrated as he tried to loosen the laces of Crowley’s trousers. Their bodies were so entwined that his hand kept brushing against his own newly corporated cock, further distracting him from what he wanted. Startled sounds of pleasure escaped his lips as he entirely forgot asking Crowley about his trousers. “O-oh, th-that’s…”

“Not bad, eh?” Crowley husked against Aziraphale’s throat, licking a long stripe from base to jaw and relishing in the shiver he elicited. “Give it a go, angel.”

Despite how far Aziraphale had gone, the angel had a moment’s reluctance. Touching oneself for carnal pleasure was frowned upon Up There, and he was wary that he had already set off enough alarms, or discorporated some poor angels’ wings, or whatever it was that happened when an angel transgressed in sinful pleasure. “Best not,” he breathed, lowering his gaze to his oldest friend with a familiar sheepish smile.

Crowley looked incredulous. “Really, angel? That’s where you draw the line?” He couldn’t help but laugh.

“Couldn’t… you do it? For me,” Aziraphale suggested, his voice low and encouraging.

The look in Aziraphale eyes made the hair at the back of his neck prickle and his cock throb insistently in its cloth prison. “Lead me not into temptation,” he recited with a sarcastic look.

“Deliver me from this evil you’ve condemned me with,” Aziraphale played along with what Crowley might describe as a wicked grin. Aziraphale didn’t have a wicked bone in his body, but perhaps his newly corporated ‘bone’ had something to do with it. The angel’s fingers ran through Crowley’s tousled hair, one hand latched to his shoulder as he watched Crowley’s hand travel down to his cock.

The sensation was intense, like a punch to the gut. Aziraphale gasped and his thighs instinctively tightened around Crowley’s hips. Just a taste of what was to come. Crowley’s hand wrapped firmly around the base of his cock and stroked him, short circuiting what was left of Aziraphale’s mind. Then he felt Crowley’s thumb circle over the tip and thought he might discorporate from the sizzling pleasure igniting his nerves. “O-oh,  _ God… _ ”

“Shh,” Crowley whispered. “Don’t bring Her into this.” Aziraphale’s cock pulsed in his hand as he continued to stroke his thick shaft and smear the gathering precome over the head. The angel watched, awestruck.

Crowley had kept his trousers on for good reason. It might have been mere flimsy cloth, but it was his last hold out from getting carried away. Aziraphale’s transformation into this sexual creature was more than he had ever imagined. Despite the angel’s discovery of desire, Crowley was wary of the consequences. These were uncharted waters--as far as he knew, anyway. There were some small alliances between Above and Below, but none as intimate as the friendship he and Aziraphale shared. Least of all now, seeing how things had turned out tonight.

He would never forgive himself if Aziraphale was punished because of his own selfish desires. It was natural for a demon to lavish in sin, just as it was patently unnatural for an angel to want anything to do with pleasure of the flesh.

Through the haze of new sensation, Aziraphale knew what he wanted. It was tantamount to embarrassing to be the one all worked up and shivering and chasing after his breath. And the pleasure coursing through his veins--it wasn’t fair for him to have it all to himself.

“Crowley…” The wanton tone of his voice surprised him, but seemed to have the desired effect on the demon, who all but paused and locked eyes with him. “I don’t want you to be left out,” he said with a kind smile.

For once, Crowley blushed. He opened his mouth and tried to find the sultry words to tell his friend there was no need, but Aziraphale’s hand had found his wrist and moved it away with a shiver. His hands were steady now as he finished loosening the laces of Crowley’s trousers. The demon shifted in his seat, looking away, uncertain. Wasn’t this what he wanted? But what of Principality Aziraphale?

His throat tightened around a barely suppressed groan as Aziraphale’s soft hands found his cock and drew it out. It was smaller than Aziraphale’s in girth, but nigh as long. Aziraphale could see why Crowley had balked at his size. The angel was amazed that some part of Crowley could feel so soft, yet so human. He could feel Crowley’s pulse in his hands and saw that the demon was just as aroused as he was, if not more so. How did he stay so calm?

Slate blue eyes watched Crowley from inches away, a smile on his lips. Crowley felt like he was going to combust--if not for committing such a sin as tempting an angel, then for the way Aziraphale took to it so lovingly. His narrow chest rose and fell and he closed his eyes. He didn’t want to miss a moment of this, and yet it was too much. If he watched, he was sure his carnal desire would completely consume him and he would fuck Aziraphale to Kingdom Come.

Crowley appeared uncharacteristically withdrawn for this being one of his supposed realms of expertise. Aziraphale worried he was doing it wrong, or poorly. He leaned toward Crowley, cupped his jaw, and kissed the serpentine mark by his ear. “What is it, Crowley? Tell me.”

He turned to meet Aziraphale’s welcoming gaze, so sweet and full of light, cheeks flushed and hair mussed. “Oh, angel…” he breathed. Aziraphale was still holding his cock, thumbing the underside oh-so gently. Should he stop this in its tracks? Pray that there was still hope for Aziraphale’s absolution? He grinned to hide his grimace. It was already too late. They were too far gone. They’d been too far gone when their friendship blossomed. What difference did it make now?

“Don’t treat it like some holy relic,” Crowley growled, giving in to that pressure building in his gut. He grasped Aziraphale’s face and kissed him hard, running his fingers into his blond hair. “Grip it tighter. That’s it.” Crowley groaned and canted his hips toward the angel. His hands fell to heavenly thighs and fingers dragged over naked flesh.

Aziraphale watched Crowley’s face with rapt attention, drinking in the sensuous curve of his lips as he moaned, tasting the arch of his exposed throat. He cried out and pressed his brow into Crowley’s sharp collarbone as the demon’s hand found his cock again, thighs trembling and trying to shut to mitigate the intense sensation.

Crowley tried and almost succeeded in shutting out the guilt tainting his pleasure. It couldn’t be good if an angel brought a demon to orgasm. Demon getting an angel to climax? Well, that was in a demon’s nature. Plausible deniability. But it felt so fucking good. Aziraphale was gripping him hard and pumping his cock as a means to channel some of his own pleasure. He wanted to lie back and take it all in. Teach the angel how to suck cock. Watch his tight body take every inch of him. Split him open and fuck him ‘till he couldn’t walk. 

Well, at least one of those desires might not involve further tainting Principality Aziraphale. With a growl of effort, Crowley took Aziraphale by the wrist and stilled his hand. Before Aziraphale could ask why, he shoved the angel onto his back and kissed his moaning lips as their cocks met. The angel’s sharp cry of ecstasy was muffled by Crowley’s roaring hunger. He couldn’t stop himself from a few thrusts of cock against cock, lubricated by their equally weeping members.

Crowley wanted to see Aziraphale come absolutely undone. He sat up and positioned himself lower on the angel’s body, one leg steady on the floor, the other bent on the velvet lounge. He ran his tongue up the underside of Aziraphale’s slick cock, the sweet musk of it making him moan. The angel cried out and arched off the lounge, his hands flying back to steady himself on the arm. Serpentine eyes took in every inch, savoring the strain of Aziraphale’s arm muscles above his head, how his abdomen trembled, the attractive pink flush of Aziraphale’s cheeks and his cock. Crowley lavished the head with circles of his tongue. He would have taken more time to tease, but Aziraphale was about to lose it. Maybe next time. (Oh, hell, he shouldn’t be thinking of a  _ next time. _ )

The demon swallowed nigh every inch of Aziraphale’s cock, though getting to the base of it made his eyes water. Why did those trashy romance novels insist that bigger was better? Crowley was out of practice and had to take a breath as he came back up to the tip. Aziraphale’s breath came in sharp bursts, delirious, as his thighs tensed and toes curled. Crowley grinned at the sight and swallowed his cock once more. One hand wrapped around Aziraphale’s trembling thigh, while the other went for his own cock, as he bobbed and sucked the angel to oblivion.

Aziraphale’s hand flew down to Crowley’s hair as he came with a cry. He devolved from the modern tongue into Latin, and then into something even older that sounded like chimes and made Crowley’s head hurt. The headache did not prevent Crowley from reaching his own shuddering orgasm, moaning around the thick cock in his mouth.

Crowley gradually worked his way off Aziraphale’s softening cock. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand as he rose up, shaky. The angel’s chest was rising and falling rapidly, breath still coming fast from flush, swollen lips. But the hand that had been in Crowley’s hair fell away limply. The demon leaned over Aziraphale, peering at his face.

“Angel?” he whispered. 

No response. Huh. He’d really outdone himself, Crowley thought with a smug look. Alone with the sleeping angel, Crowley didn’t feel too embarrassed to touch his friend’s face with a fondness reserved for only him. He knew there were plenty of things to fear and fret about, but let him just have this moment. Aziraphale seemed to smile.

Tucking himself back into his trousers, Crowley surveyed the whirlwind of discarded clothes and picked out his darker articles. He didn’t bother with the buttons--it was late enough that he doubted he’d encounter anyone who would be affronted by his exposed chest on his way back to his flat. Fuck it. He hated all the damn buttons.

Crowley was tempted to redress Aziraphale and give him a little decency, but opted instead for a warm quilt. The angel shifted in his sleep, but still did not wake. Crowley wondered how Aziraphale would feel about all this in the morning. Perhaps, as with any kind of debauchery-adjacent things they did together, they would not speak of it for a time, and then laugh about it later. Wouldn’t be the worst outcome. Probably for the best, really.

At least Crowley got Aziraphale to dance. Just for tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pretty sure Aziraphale *doesn't* know anything about the 'giving' and 'receiving' part. Luckily, I think Crowley was joking. Or changed his mind. What a conscience on that one, eh.
> 
> Look forward to a little epilogue next chapter.


	4. Authentic Movement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale wakes (mostly) alone and writes Crowley a letter.

There are so very many things for Heaven to keep track of. On the evening of August 26, 1648, those Above had their hands quite full tracking the progress of a rising rebellion outside the Cathedral of Notre Dame de Paris. The arrest of the Parlement by the order of Anne of Austria, against the counsel of the good Cardinal Marazin, had caused a stir among the peasantry. The angels on watch suspected dark influences, though it was unclear whether it came from the queen or the cardinal.  It seemed, at the time, much more exciting than whatever strange signals were coming from a little bookshop in England.

“Erm… hullo?”

Aziraphale woke on the lounge. The womb-like warmth and dimness of his back room made it hard to tell what time of day it was. He’d heard something…

“Hullo?”

The voice was louder and closer this time. Coming from the shop. Oh goodness, what time was it? Aziraphale sat up quickly and the quilt fell from his naked chest. Oh my, he was still naked. He panicked and clutched the quilt to his chest.

“Uh- ah- I-I’m sorry, we’re closed at the moment!” Aziraphale shouted.

“Closed? It’s half past ten! The sign says hours start at nine,” the unseen patron chuffed.

Aziraphale kicked at the quilt to untangle it from his feet. “I believe the sign also says we are _closed_ right now!” He had most certainly turned the sign to ‘closed’ yesterday. Although Crowley had obviously forgotten to lock the door when he left, he surely hadn’t turned the sign. That would just be inconsiderate.

“But your hours says…”

Aziraphale stood up in a huff. His sore ankle buckled and he crumpled to the ground with an undignified ‘oof.’

“Are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m fine--” Aziraphale hissed, heat rising to his face as he heard steps drawing closer to the back room. Why didn’t he put _something_ in that doorway? A curtain? A door? “I m-mean, no! No, I’m quite… ill!” The lie burned his tongue, but not as much as the embarrassment of being seen in his current state. “Quite ill. Contagious. The shop’s closed.”

“Oh…” The steps halted. Blessed be. “Oh, alright then. Sorry to hear that. Shall I fetch you a doctor?”

By _God,_ the English were polite. To a fault. “No, no. That won’t be necessary. I apologize for the inconvenience.”

“Quite right. I was looking for a particular book…”

“Terribly sorry, sir, if you could come back tomorrow…”

“Oh. Yes. I will do.”

“Thank you for your patronage…” Aziraphale ground out and sighed. The footsteps drifted away and the bell sounded as the door opened and closed. The angel’s forehead sank into the floor with relief, then he swiftly bolted up to his feet. Wary of his ankle, he threw the quilt haphazardly around himself and hobbled double-time into the shop, turning his head sharply this way and that to make sure there were no other customers milling about. He jerked the door shut, turned the lock, and narrowed his eyes at the sign that hung in the window. Definitely still turned to ‘closed.’

With a huge sigh, Aziraphale turned and sank down to the floor with his back against the door. The bustle of people walking about filtered in through the windows. It was a familiar rumble of background noise that only intensified the strange feeling of being naked, draped in naught but a quilt, and having overslept.

Everything in the bookshop seemed to be in order. He got to his feet and crept back to his private collection. Clothes were strewn beside the lounge. Just his. No sign of Crowley. He pulled the quilt tighter around his shoulders. Well, one sign of Crowley. He must’ve been the one to tuck him in. A smile crept onto his lips.

The smile soured as he thought about last night. He wished he could blame the sherry or the demon’s influence, but Crowley hadn’t pushed for it at all. He’d wanted it, yes, he made no illusions about that. How long had Crowley wanted that? Aziraphale touched his lips and closed his eyes. He tried to put it all out of his mind.

Aziraphale gingerly picked up his clothes, shaking them out and draping them over his arm. Just under the lounge, he found one black, silken cravat and swallowed a lump in his throat. There was no mistake whose it was. Aziraphale brought it to his nose and smelled woodsmoke and musk. It brought on visions of kissing Crowley’s throat as he moaned, not an inch between their naked flesh, Crowley’s mouth on his…

Oh dear.

Aziraphale placed the cravat on his writing desk and went to freshen up. He attempted to wash away the memories of last night’s encounter with mixed results. He dressed and felt no less conflicted as he sat at his desk.

The most troubling aspect wasn’t the fact of what had transpired. What troubled Aziraphale was the lack of guilt he felt for doing it. There was no question he had acted well outside what was proper conduct for an angel. And yet, his conscience failed to register his impropriety. A murmur of fear slithered through his thoughts, and his chest felt tight, waiting for the axe to fall. His gaze flicked upward and he shrank, fingering the cravat nervously.

With a sigh, he uncorked his ink pot and dabbed his quill.

 

_My dearest friend--_

_I found your cravat whilst tidying up this morning. Thought I ought to post it to you for convenience’s sake. Perhaps it’s best if we postpone our lunches for the time being. Best not to draw undue attention after_

 

Aziraphale frowned at the stationery as he dipped his quill thoughtfully. His heart ached at what he had written. He set his jaw and slid the paper off his desk. As it fluttered to the floor, he sighed and closed his eyes, black silk held tight in his hand.

 

 _My dearest friend--_  

_Drop by the shop when you’re in the neighborhood. You seem to have left your cravat in my back room. I find myself thinking about dancing this morning. A recently published book that came across my eyes proposes the question, “How many angels can dance on the head of a pin?” Absurd, I thought--and such is the point. The question is meant to infer the pointlessness of some philosophical debates. Counting the number of dancing angels on a pin seems about as foolish as contemplating any other activities they might or might not do. Perhaps there is some greater meaning there. Let’s talk over lunch._

  _-A_

 

Aziraphale signed with a flourish and a smile, resting his chin on the silk bound over his knuckles. If he was damned for dancing, so be it. It would be the least of his transgressions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so ends an Introduction to Dancing! Thank you beautiful readers for your views and kudos.
> 
> Would you like to see more of Crowley and Aziraphale's escapades now that the floodgates have opened? Comment & subscribe for more!
> 
> If you'd like to support me and my work, you can check out my independent stories over on Medium. https://medium.com/@vol.ctrl
> 
> Stay up to date with coming chapters by following my Twitter! @vol_ctrl
> 
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> 
> More to come...


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